she slices, she dices, she juliennes...

When Mama got whacked, Quinn and Rei were on the case. They cleaned, they kept my rice pack hot and my water bottle full, and they tried to fight at a slightly less audible level than normal. (Operative word being slightly.) Reilly has always been much more capable than we've given her credit for, but this week she has blown me away with her ability to anticipate my needs, prepare my meals, and generally kick ass. She brings me a menu every three hours or so and leaves a blank section at the end for special requests. I'm not kidding. For instance, she'll offer soup, a frozen entree, or quesadillas, but I am welcome to request a pb&j. Kapeisch?

This kid. She makes me tear my hair out, but she also brings me to my knees, weeping with joy at the miracle of being her mom. It's the same with my Quinny. (More on him soon. Getting misty-eyed.)

Today she made me quesadillas with zucchini, four to be exact, a soda with the all-important pink straw, napkin, and the oh-so-essential mealtime accoutrement, my phone.

And, in case you're wondering, yes she can spell quesadilla.

alloKated

After an exhausting, soul-crushing, faith-testing, teeth-gritting month, the surviving babies are finally home, and Reilly got to hold her beloved Kate in her arms. B's mama bunny had her babies circa Rosie's appendectomy, and managed not to kill two of them. They were seriously failure-to-thrive, and B shipped them to Maria's so they could be in the foster care of a mama not as apt to starve her young.

So just last weekend Rei got the call that Kate was en route. She was trembling with excitement. Pacing like a proud father. Squealing like a ... well, girl. On the way to B's, Rei identified every landmark and estimated how many minutes were left to drive.

"Blockbuster! Six minutes!"

"That cafe that's always empty! Three minutes, right Mom?"

At last their epic reunion was at hand, and Reilly was finally able to behold Kate in all her peeing, scratching glory. (Though in Kate's defense I am told neither of these things occurred--I'm just thinking back to my own rabbit.) Anyway, here are some shots of Proud Mamas Reilly and Rosie (with Champion):


This is NOT Adam dutifully building a hutch in the dark, it is someone else.

no concussing

For those of you who weren't summoned Monday, we had all the King's horses and all the King's men here to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. (In case there is any doubt at all, I play Humpty in this--and pretty much every other--scenario.)

Early that morning, I had bent down to kiss Quinn good morning on the bottom bunk, and when I stood, I cracked my head on the top bunk, and down I went like the twin towers. (A tribute to my cherished fellow heathens Brandy and Adam, who love a good 9-11 joke.) Quinn says I blacked out for a couple seconds, and when I came to, I could hear them trying to figure out whom to call. Ultimately, (surprise!) they called B, who was home with a gaggle of children and no car. And yet, I assure you, she was the logical choice. So after some logistics the likes of which I will never comprehend (I just know it involved passports, syphoning gas, and I think robbing a convenience store), B arrived to save the day, which, sadly, has become second nature for her. I insisted I was fine, but uneven pupils, slurred speech, and vomiting gave me away and she called the EMTs. Obviously this 20-man brigade staring down at me brought out the absolute best in my confidence level/ability to speak, to say nothing of the fact that I hadn't showered or put on a bra that day, so I was trying to pretend that I looked the same in my cami and yoga pants as (insert cute popular actress) does. Sigh. We refused the deluxe $900 ambulance ride and B drove me instead. Meanwhile, we had more children running around than that compound in Texas, only with less supervision. We immediately set out (and by "we" I mean B) to determine which of our friends we would saddle with this brood, and we ultimately settled on Karen, who I suspect will never answer her phone again. She arrived in 2.5 seconds, and I swear she screeched into the driveway in a cartoon car, ready to be of service, and dressed to the nines, natch. (Please let's not forget that, true to my injury tradition, I was unshowered, mostly undressed, with no make-up, and not even a morsel of wit with which to compensate for my pitiful state. So thanks Karen, for having just gotten your hair done, and for having perfect mascara (which I noticed with my one good eye), and for having the girls nicely displayed, as my own were splayed out all over the floor, much like an octopus' tentacles.)

We were well-advised to go the Silverton Hospital, where a nurse was waiting for us upon arrival. I was in a room within five minutes, and talking with the doc within ten. Mind you, I have no idea what he said, except that I "really got (my) bell rung," lol, and had a major concussion. Then B and I had a misunderstanding about getting a burger, and we headed home in record time to relieve Karen of her zoo-keeping duties.

Meanwhile, it had become unexpectedly sunny and B had a rabbit frying outside so she needed to pack up and leave too. never take my own injuries very seriously, and I always assume I am exaggerating because when I tell stories, I generally go heavy on the hyperbole. You'd think I would have learned when I got cut in half, but I didn't. When B left I started sweeping the floor, and Karen got all authoritative, which I must confess, has changed the dynamic of our relationship, and told me to sit. She made me promise to rest blah blah blah, and enlisted my kids in her Nazi regime, and bid us adieu.

Later that night I went to B's so she could keep an eye on me, which I felt really bad about because she hasn't been feeling so hot herself. I kept her awake the entire night with all my twitching and repeatedly asking if she has a car. She got no, and I mean NO, sleep. I slept the entire day, which was really a slap in the face to B, who hasn't slept since 2005. I'm still really dizzy, and if my speech was a Scrabble hand, my tiles would be blank, except for one B. Maybe a G. And I would just put the on the board all by themselves, unconnected, and hope that you would know what I meant. Sweet sweet B, she knows what I mean. Her text to me this morning was, "Good morning, you little rung bell." Hee hee.

So the doc said I could feel dizzy for a few weeks, and have the blurred vision that long too. I'm taking a gorgeous vicodin/oxycodone cocktail for the pain, and once again, I am so extraordinarily blessed to have my people around me, offering everything they have. (Getting emotional) It wasn't so long ago that I had the emotional/social aptitude of a rock, and valued relationships right up there with compost. These days, I am surrounded by the highest quality men and women friends an old stone like me could ever hope for. Seriously. You guys bring tears to my eyes. (Perhaps in part because I'm listening to Air Supply.) I'd be some shivering rock (with a concussion) without my primo posse. So thank you guys, from my sedimentary core, and my rung bell.

Jesus I may have gone overboard on the vicodin...ya think?

idk, rofcrying?

I'm just going to say it: Internet lingo and text-ese are beneath me. That is to say, I am too good to speak that way. Aside from the occasional "lol," you will never get a text from me that says, "c u soon" or "plz dnt be l8." I shudder to think of just how low the bar has dropped since cell phones and computers have become so ubiquitous.

This is not to say I am not aware of this vernacular, spreading like a rash. I don't like getting "w/e" any more than the next guy, though "j/k" has brought relief from time to time. Lately though, the language seems to be escalating from abbreviations to full-on phrases, represented by a letter or sound. Adam recently showed me a series of online skits that revolved around Gen-Xers speaking solely in this fucked-up verbage, and while the grouchy grammarian in me slit its throat, I wound up laughing until I peed on their couch, shrieking, and begging for more. Amidst shouts of "first," "false," and the supremely entertaining demonstration of "roflol," my personal favorite, and the cause of the faulty bladder, we kept hearing what sounded like "poned." Being that all three of us are too good for this form of "speech," we had no recourse but to look it up. It's actually "pwnd," a derivative of "owned," which means, quite logically, to get the better of someone. So we began teasing each other with random (until it wasn't random) interjections of "pwnd!"

This charming little trend bled over into a few nights later when B and I had dinner with some friends, one of whom was our beloved Jacob, whom we "pwnd" until he became a trifle less friendly. The next morning I was instant messaging with Jacob, using my correct English in all its luster and glory. Suddenly Jacob typed, "POWNED!" I laughed so hard. Quinn walked over and totally laughed, mostly because he thinks he's the one cool enough to have an inroad into this scintillating world of broken down junk speech. He is at once endeared to my knowledge of such things, and disturbed that I think I can pull it off. Anyway, he fully appreciated that I got owned by Jacob, and walked away laughing.

Cut to this morning, in the very wee hours, when I moved Quinn to his bed after finding him on the living room floor. As I tucked his covers around him, he raised his head all wobbly-like, eyes closed like a newborn mouse, and said, "Mama? Can you please tell Jacob pwnd is spelled p-w-n-d, not p-o-w-n-e-d?" Dear God. "Okay honey, I will tell him." I mean really, does a mother laugh or cry at that? On one hand, this child, whom I struggle everyday to educate, knows about pwnd. On the flip side though, he cares that it is spelled correctly. Part of me thinks he'll benefit from being so versatile, that he'll have the best of both worlds. But truthfully, there is no "best" in that junk heap world, and I want both my children to rise above it. Jacob calls me a "Nazi bitch," which I take a compliment.

When it comes to language, I've been owned by propriety...or is it ownd?

(Adam? Can you hook us up with the link? I couldn't find it anywhere.)

surreality tv

I read a statistic that said something like 35% of battered women return to their abusers. Well, I've done nothing to put a dent in this figure. After six months of freedom, I made my way back. First I began seeing my ex at the gym, and would try not to make eye contact, but invariably, I'd end up engaged in some witty thing that was said, and before I knew, I was seeking out interaction. Ultimately, Wednesday morning, we made a full reconciliation. Now, I don't expect you to understand, and I know it will nauseate most of you to learn that we are quite happy, and that things will be different this time. For those of who have not met my companion, who's really a home body, here's a picture:

Come on, tell me you can't see the allure:


Six months ago, when I was on the verge of setting fire to the production lots of the Disney Channel and Nickelodeon, I knew it was time for a clean break. So we disconnected our cable, and I immediately felt myself ascend to a higher rank of parent. After initial protests about the cruel inhumanity of it, which lasted like a day, my kids adjusted fine, and the quiet in the house was orgasmic. No more 12 year old bitches like, totally dissing their families, and like, no more of that flippy wanna-be surfer shag haircut that all the boys are wearing. Unfortunately Quinn got caught in the snares of that one, and we tried letting him grow his hair out, but ultimately, I was starting to love him less so we cut it. Anyway, no TV was working really well. My mom was recording my beloved Jon & Kate Plus 8, and Lost, and we were getting serious mileage out of our Netflix membership (watching, what else? Lost reruns!)

But then the election crept up on us, and I quickly came to realize that the internet wasn't really cutting it. I like to be saturated in coverage. Every sound bite, every speech, every pundit weighing in, and all the crawls along the bottom, letting us know how many bombs went off in Jerusalem that day. While CNN was a great motivator to get to the gym, one can never count on getting a TV to his/herself, and I was frequently stuck watching Law & Order and/or fucking golf. So the seed of getting reconnected was planted.

I suspected that convincing Todd would be of greater difficulty than climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, so I chipped away slowly, patiently. Finally, with Oregon's primary looming large, I blurted out one day, "I have to have the TV back. I just have to." To which he replied, "Hey, if we can come up with a way to keep the kids from Disney and Ickalodeon, go for it."

Sweet sweet success.

Wednesday was the magic reunion. I instantly fantasized about wrapping up in my magic blanket and watching TV for a week, but immediately realized there was nothing on worth watching, just like there wasn't six months ago. The commercials are so fast they're like an assault. Animal Planet had the same anaconda as it did last October. And the "kid" shows, well, they're the perfect primer for a future on Jerry Springer. The guy eating snakes and sparrows and giant lice was fascinating until I vomited in my mouth, but all in all, TV is only worth it in election years, and, some would argue, Olympics years.

We did encounter one program, following the palate-of-steel idiot, called Nanny 911, akin to Super Nanny, which I love. We watched three children, er, spawns of satan, biting, kicking, scratching their parents, each other, while screaming, "I hate my mommy and wish she was dead!" The wispy, pansy-assed feather-haired, soft-spoken, chi-seeking, mealy-mouthed, LOSER of a husband would just go for a bike ride whenever the climate in the house started rising, which was every ten minutes. Needless to say, he was in great shape. But the poor, ineffectual mom got no breaks. These freaks were of the mindset that they were there to allow their children to be who they are, to find their own light, their own mystic purpose. Or some bullshit like that. I'm telling you, the only light in these kids' future was the explosions they were certain to cause someday soon. As the scenes played out, and the tension rose to a crescendo, to illustrate just how badly this family needed Nanny Stella, Quinn buried his face in my chest, tears streaming down his reddened face. "What happened honey?" "I HATE THOSE KIDS MOM! I HATE THEM!" Todd and I shot each other a glance and instantly realized we had no cause to complain about our kids every again. Seriously. These kids were murderers in the making, making all of our kids honorary angels.

I'm very wary of the TV becoming our default activity, so I'm kind of a Nazi about it. When it is on, I am really unaccustomed to the noise of it. It seems absurd. A complete and total waste of our time. Except to watch my boyfriend, Barack Obama. He's literally the reason we're shelling out 55 clams a month for this mind-numbing bullshit. And he's worth every penny. But we're making some real changes too. We're locking all the kids' channels, restricting their use to one (combined) hour a day, and of course, my most rigid rule: no TV in the daytime, unless you have vomited.

So judge me if you must for going back. I expect a certain amount of scorn. "What about the kids?" you'll ask. "Won't you be breaking it off again in six months?" Maybe, but in six months I will be so elated about President-Elect Obama that I'll be too busy singing in the streets to watch Nanny 911.

(PS--Brandy is considering turning her TV too, so nanny nanny nanny.)

current blogosphere forecast...

Except of course in Adam's neck of the woods, which looks like this:


Let's get with it people, you do not want to see me mad.

twisted

Let there be no ambiguity here, I hate streamers. Hate them. I hate taping their unsightly tattered edges to various moldings around the house, I hate trying to perfect the aesthetic of beautifully, seemingly effortless twists, and I hate the way they taste, since I am so retarded as to still taste them every time, in hopes that the battery acid flavor has suddenly been replaced by strawberry shortcake.

Thanks to the loving dedication of my own mother, there is a certain birthday ritual that I've carried out for each of my children's combined 17 birthdays. Sometimes we have a party and sometimes we don't, but they always wake up to a house full of balloons, a few wrapped gifts, and goddamned streamers. Not just one or two strands mind you, but sometimes as many as six, all coordinated with the wrapping paper and balloons.

Also in the "poor me" category, my kids are nightowls like their mama, so I must outlast them every year in order to decorate. This makes me resent streamers even more. Poor Reilly could not fall asleep last night, and was even crying because she just couldn't get sleepy. So I, along with my elf, Quinn, had to creep around, trying not to crinkle packages or rub balloons, knowing Rei was trying so hard not to hear anything.

At last we got everything wrapped, twisted, taped, and brought the balloons in to fill the living room (my favorite part). I'm happy to report that Reilly was really impressed by the presentation, and adored the wrapping paper, the pattern of which I found equal parts super-cute and pimento loaf.
I have only just granted myself (and Sam) permission not to kill ourselves having parties every year, but I think it will take some serious reconditioning to skip the streamers. They're just so gratifying. So glorious. No true party is complete without them. I'd just rather eat them than hang them.

seriously

it's always rush hour

Okay, I'm dog-tired, so don't expect to laugh. Or to be impressed. I just wanted to make sure I'm not embellishing all the things I did today. (I do that sometimes.)

*Awoke at 7-something to make cheese-less enchilada casserole for Marionette

*Did three loads of laundry

*Cleaned the kitchen

*Got kids ready to play at Grandma's so Mama could spread herself too thin, as per usual

*Showered with Reilly, which meant froze with very little water, and spent 79 minutes drying her gorgeous hair and was left with 9 seconds to do my own

*Accidentally put on the skin-tight, NON-forgiving jeans, before heading out the door

*Dropped kids off with Barbara, begged/threatened them regarding eating ice cream for breakfast

*Screeched into my 11:00 psych appointment with one second to spare, during which time I worked in a brilliant self-deprecating remark to the receptionist, punctuating my need for therapy...then, endured the session.

*Stopped at Safeway to buy some goodies to go with Marionette's dish

*Got a call from B as I was turning the wrong way into traffic coming out of Safeway, asking me to go back in and buy some ingredients for our lunch...I granted her request. One avocado, pepper, and diet Dr. Pepper later, I was back on the road

*Found Marionette's house, and got a call from her as I pulled in, asking if I happened to still be in the store, lol. Visited the new family

*Drove to B's and had the BEST lunch of my life. What that woman can do with a few veggies and some chicken would blow your mind

*Had an MRI and managed not to gouge out my jugular out of claustrophobic reflex...saw some ducklings born just outside the waiting room, noted their cuteness, while also noting that I am not typically an animal person. Even took pics.

*Drove back to B's to await dinner plans and squeeze in an episode of Six Feet Under with B and A.

*7:00, picked up Heather.

*10:00, dropped Heather off, was told by B that A would not likely be up for more episodes. Pouted.

*Drove home in time to kiss my kids and mediate a dispute about bunk bed right-of-way involving one nighttime reader and one picky sleeper who needs dark.

*Noticed my house is still spotless from last night, knew that I will wake up in such a great mood tomorrow.

*Left some messages for friends, tried to parlay my ridiculous day into a blog.

Any questions?

BEEFore and after

As most of you know, B and I have resumed our hard-core starvation and exercise regimen, in hopes of ... LOSING WEIGHT YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!!

Sorry, I'm a little tense.

As I've said before, me no cook, so I am wholly reliant upon the culinary talents/generosity of others, and dining out. Now, I'm a confessed take-out whore, but sometimes, a person has a craving rise up from within for a home-cooked meal. Last night happened to be a free-for-all at my house, which typically means I eat my weight in pasta, followed by a romp in the treat cupboard. Oh how the winds of change have swept through my life, my friends. B and I were at the gym, busting our asses, and all the while I knew I was going home to nothing but Lindt chocolate (which I don't even like, which is why I usually only eat fifteen or so squares) and toast. Neither of which I can have. B, on the other hand, had a beef roast cooking at her house, and I could smell it all through my work out. When she dropped me off, I got tears in my eyes knowing she was going to feast on two succulent ounces of roast, while I was hoping to ignore the cat calls of the ravioli, and the parmesan cheese making eyes at me. At one point I was going to drive to B's and demand some roast, which would have been absurd since I had already been invited. But I couldn't justify the gas. (It's $4.00/gallon, thank you Mr. President. I'm glad I was denied beef, and had to eat flax cereal, so that you could keep lining those neo-con pockets.) I suffered through the night without so much as an Omega-3 Fruit Fish to console me. These are vitamins you see. They are no more special than any others, but when one is significantly restricted in what s/he is able to eat, these Fruity Fish may as well be creme brulee. (Yes Adam, I know you know how to apply the accents.) Last night B challenged me to only eat three fish a day, which is roughly 3/100ths what I was eating. The point is, I suffered all night, and today came my sweet reward. After running some errands downtown, Quinn and I stopped by B's Cafe and she brought me some roast and carrots. I took one bite and screeched out of the driveway so I could get home and heat it up, running down an old lady on the way I think. This picture is multi-faceted. It shows how blessed I was to be spared flax cereal for lunch. It shows B's skill as well as her giving nature. It shows that I stopped at Starbucks for an iced tea. It shows that I really do use the ugly goose-in-a-bonnet dishes I swore I never used in a previous post. And, it shows that ketchup should never, ever, be photographed.


Thanks B. Tres magnifique.